


Overdressed

by whateverrrrwhatever



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Eddie Kaspbrak's Ongoing Sexual Renaissance, Eddie wears shirt stays, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mild Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Richie holds Eddie down a little and he likes it, Richie loses his mind, Smut, he's figuring himself out okay, so mild i'm not even sure it's worth tagging, very light restraint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26074399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whateverrrrwhatever/pseuds/whateverrrrwhatever
Summary: Eddie comes home from a job interview with shirt stays under his suit and Richie doesn't let him make it past the foyer.Inspired by a Twitter exchange between @dilfworthtozier and @jffgldblm90s.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 33
Kudos: 370





	Overdressed

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by and owes a great debt to this Twitter thread: https://twitter.com/DilfworthTozier/status/1280094985107324928 and to "Stop Desire" by Tegan and Sara. I'm not proud.

More than a month after he moves — fled by night, Richie jokes, and he’s close enough to the truth, but Eddie argues the point anyway — Eddie’s still getting used to driving in LA. It’s a whole different animal from New York: sprawling freeways clotted with cars for miles on end, baking in the arid heat. He hates it with a passionate fury that burns hotter and brighter than the center of the Earth. That was how Richie described it, anyway, in the new set he was percolating, which quickly segued into a bit about Richie’s passenger seat fear boner.

When Richie told him about it, Eddie didn't laugh.

“It’s a process, Eds,” Richie explained, fiddling with an obnoxiously iridescent fidget spinner. “I’ll workshop it. You know. It’s all in the delivery. You’ll see.” He was infuriatingly right, and Eddie had laughed along with the rest of the comedy club when Richie tried the bit a couple weeks later, pacing back and forth on the stage, shooting look-at-me grins Eddie’s way all night long.

Today, the drive from downtown LA back to Richie’s house in Santa Monica isn’t too bad. His interview ended a little after 9, and he’s driving toward the coast against the commute. There are fewer cars in this direction, and the glut of commute traffic is mostly cleared from the roadway.

Even when traffic’s light like this, Eddie prefers undergoing job interviews to driving in central LA. He always sleeps poorly the night before and usually has to ask to use the bathroom while he’s waiting — he has to piss when he’s anxious; he can’t help it. Eddie always leaves early to account for emergencies and usually arrives well before his appointment. This morning was no exception and he’d ended up sitting in the parking garage sipping from his travel mug more than half an hour ahead of his interview.

The silent alarm on his Apple watch woke Eddie at six thirty, a low buzz beside him on the pillow. Richie didn’t move, face mashed into his pillow, still recovering from a _30 Rock_ marathon that had extended well past two, when he’d finally crawled into bed, jostling Eddie and staying awake just long enough to sling an arm around him before dropping off. Eddie had slipped out of the room and dressed for his run in the gray half-light of early summer mornings on the Pacific. He’d had just enough time to make it back, stretch, shower, dress and drive downtown. 

After the hellish but predictable commute into downtown, he killed the twenty minutes before he had to go inside flipping through his resume and the job posting, taking notes in the margins to organize his thoughts. It’s strange to look back on his career like this. It’s the past twenty years of his life laid out in front of him, long a source of pride and jealousy and frustration and so monumental at the time, in the absence of anything more worthy of his attention and care. Funny how it doesn’t seem to matter so much anymore. It almost feels like someone else’s life. In a way, it is — going back to Derry had almost killed him, but it had given him his friends, his sense of self back. It had given him Richie.

All Eddie wants now is a job.

He won’t be getting this one, if the interview was any indication, and even if it was offered, he wouldn’t accept. Despite Eddie’s thoughtful preparation, he hadn’t anticipated the baffling dearth of questions about his qualifications or how much he would want to punch the fratty self-satisfied interviewer in the mouth. Justin’s low ponytail and lax manners, accented in a grating California drawl, already had Eddie on edge before they sat down. His shitty interview technique only took the experience from bad to worse.

At least it hadn’t been for nothing, he thinks, merging onto the highway. It was a trial run. He’d brushed up his resume, practiced answering interview questions — not with Richie, since he always half-heartedly tried to turn the exercise into office roleplay. He had a seventy-five percent success rate so far, and Eddie had decided to prepare alone this time around.

Eddie had even dug his suit out of one of the garment boxes in the garage, untouched since its arrival from New York, and taken it to the cleaners. This morning, he put on a suit for the first time since Mike Hanlon called. It was an exercise in self-containment: clipping stays to the hem of his shirt, fastening his cufflinks, lacing his freshly-shined oxfords. When he’d been in New York, lonely and unhappy, dressing for work each morning had been a familiar comfort, a projection of fastidiousness on his wreck of a life.

After whole afternoons spent naked in bed, sprawled next to Richie, underneath him, inside of him, nothing but an expanse of naked skin against sheets, Eddie’s not so sure he wants to go back.

When he gets home, Richie’s sagging against the kitchen counter and pouring himself a cup of coffee — at least his second, Eddie guesses, glancing at the half-empty pot. Richie looks up at the sound of the door creaking open. He grins at Eddie and straightens up, cracking his back as he goes.

“Morning, Eds,” he says, ambling over. Richie’s weird, long-legged stride takes on an odd shuffling quality when he’s just waking up. Richie blames his high arches and plantar fasciitis, gingerly skating across the kitchen to the breakfast table. Eddie kind of likes his slow old-man hobble. “How’d it go?”

“Crappy,” Eddie shrugs with one shoulder and fishes his wallet out of his pocket, tossing it on the table in the entryway. He shrugs out of his jacket and slips it onto a hanger, hanging it on the back of the closet door. “The interviewer was a fucking idiot. He asked me one question about predictive analytics. The rest was all how many ping pong balls can you fit in a Mini? What’s your favorite Dylan album? What the shit?”

“Wow, fuck that,” Richie says wryly, eyes wide. He leans against the doorjamb, one ankle slung over the other. He’s holding a steaming mug in one hand — the one with a half-peeled oversize banana for a handle that proclaims, _I’ve got a BIG BANANA_ — his free hand tucked into the opposite elbow. The pose makes his shoulders look broader than usual. Eddie ignores it.

“Yeah. Asshole didn’t even know how to use Crystal Ball.” Eddie loosens his tie and braces a hand against the wall to untie his shoes. “Can you fucking believe that?”

“I can’t. Textbook unbelievable,” Richie says. He sips his coffee. “Sounds like it maybe wasn’t a great fit for you.”

“No,” Eddie agrees. “Guy wouldn’t know an actuarial table if it walked up and bit him in the ass.”

“Ooh, talk dirty to me, Eds. I like where this is going.”

“Richie.” Eddie sighs. “Come on.”

“Look, it’s okay. It was only the first interview. You’ve got time,” Richie says.

“I know. Just getting a little sick of freeloading.” Eddie sets his oxfords side by side under the entry table so he doesn’t forget to polish them before putting them away.

“Freeloading? Are you kidding? You put in the work, baby.” Richie waggles his eyebrows.

“So I’m a kept man.” Eddie rolls his eyes. “That’s not any fuckin’ better, Rich. You make it sound like I’m a, a—”

“My sugar baby? My eye candy? My inamorato of leisure? It’s not like I ask you to put on your shorts and skim the pool. Although—”

“Not a chance,” Eddie declares, frowning. They both know it’s a lie.

“Come on, Eddie, baby.” Richie pushes off the wall, opening his arms wide in supplication. “Just this once? It’s supposed to hit 90 today.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Richie says, stepping in closer to steal a kiss. He tastes sour and rich, like the coffee he insists on drinking black even though Eddie suspects he hates it. Even Eddie isn’t that much of a masochist. Richie pulls back blinking, a flush rises in his cheeks and a slow grin unfurling from the corners of his lips.

These are the good parts of making his life in LA. Hell, they’re all good parts, except for how Eddie kind of hates LA — a little on principle, and a little because of the traffic and even more because it’s always so fucking hot. Richie doesn’t seem to mind, especially when Eddie ends up stripped down to a pair of running shorts, sulking on the lounge chair in front of the fan. He always seems to make it his mission to distract Eddie, on those days. It works. It’s hard to mind the heat when it’s searing its way down his spine, Richie on top of him in a dark room, sweat dripping off his chin and slicking Eddie’s belly, stinging his eyes as Richie rides him, the ceiling fan spinning overhead. Heat wave days usually end in an afternoon nap or a cool shower, or both, and takeout from the taqueria for dinner.

Richie goes in for another kiss, lingering this time, shoving his mug on top of the stack of magazines on the hall credenza and slipping his hands under Eddie’s vest, plucking at his shirt. “Anyone ever tell you you look good in a suit, Eds?”

“Just you.” Eddie rolls his eyes again and makes a useless attempt to corral Richie’s hands, slipping around his waist and down his back as Richie pulls him closer. Eddie ends up off-balance, gripping Richie’s biceps to stay upright and, well — he’ll complain about it, when Richie inevitably refuses to let go, and they both know he’ll be lying.

Richie shrugs and slides his hands down to palm Eddie’s ass through the pinstripe wool. “Well, it’s the fucking truth. And I don’t want to share any— whoa. Wait, wait. What—”

He sounds genuinely alarmed and for a moment, Eddie freezes. But Richie hasn’t stopped touching him and all at once Eddie realizes what’s got his attention. He flushes and grits his teeth, ready for a fight, for Richie to start in—

“Eds. Eddie. What is—” Richie blinks, jaw dropping a little. His tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip. “What the fuck. What _is_ that?”

“Shut the fuck up, Rich,” Eddie rolls his eyes and tries to step away. Richie doesn’t let go of his ass — if anything, his grip tightens. “Don’t be an asshole. Just because you’ve made it to forty years old without having a single fucking clue when it comes to dressing yourself—”

“No, no, no,” Richie’s shaking head wildly, sweeping his thumbs over Eddie’s hips. The wool brushes against his skin, catching and tugging lightly on the hair there, the slightest prickling sensation. “No, listen—”

“It doesn’t mean that the rest of us are wandering around showing up to job interviews in Pork Chop Express t-shirts,” Eddie says hotly. “Not everyone is a cancelled comedian going through a midlife crisis. It pays to look professional.”

“No, Eddie.” Richie leans in, hitches Eddie closer to him with the surprising strength he tends to display in situations of promising sexual opportunity. In emergencies, parents can lift cars to save their children. In the event that he and Eddie might bone, Richie suddenly finds it within him to toss Eddie around — pin him up against a wall, helpless, sling him up in Richie’s arms to be carried to the bedroom, toss him down on the mattress so hard he bounces. It drives Eddie crazy; he can’t even pretend to hate it. “What _are those_?”

There’s an edge to his voice, a frustration, that stops Eddie in his tracks. Richie’s flushed bright pink, he realizes, swallowing hard as Eddie’s gaze meets his own, a little slack-jawed. His hands are still working against Eddie’s ass, feeling for the edges of the stays, following them down to the straps around Eddie’s thighs.

“They’re just shirt stays,” Eddie says, half-incredulous, but maybe they’re not _just_ anything, he realizes, the way Richie is looking at him, the way it flushes Eddie's cheeks, sends a rush of a heat spreading to his neck. “I got them on Amazon. They were the ones with the best reviews, actual reviews, none of that bait-and-switch bullshit third party sellers pull.”

“You got them on Amazon.” Richie blinks. “They’re just — fuck. I want to— Can I see them?” Richie asks, pleading. He sounds desperate. Eddie’s mouth goes dry. “Eds, please let me see them.”

“I mean— yeah,” Eddie says, a low rasp, and Richie lets him go, hands fumbling with Eddie’s belt, fingers running along his waistband to trip over the hook and bar closure on his pants.

“Fuck, come on,” Richie mutters. “You and your fucking — _fuck_ — petit bourgeois suits and weird-ass old-timey underwear.” He gets Eddie’s pants open, barely half-zipped, and shoves his hand in to palm Eddie’s stirring dick, stroking him through the thin stretchy fabric of the nice, expensive, no-show underwear that he’s about to fucking ruin, the third pair in two months. Being with Richie has proven detrimental to his wardrobe.

“Fuck you,” Eddie manages, bucking up against Richie’s hand. “If you don’t like it, you can—”

“I didn’t say that.” Richie exhales, loud and sharp, curling his fingers around Eddie. He shoves his face into Eddie’s neck, nosing up to his ear, breath coming hot along Eddie’s jaw. Eddie shudders a little, leaning into Richie’s touch, into the feel of his lips brushing against Eddie’s skin when he speaks. “That is not what I said.”

“Hmph,” Eddie says, but he doesn’t really have much to say to that. He still doesn’t know how to respond to this: the way Richie wants him, always so urgent, so reverent.

Especially when Richie’s shoving Eddie’s pants down with his free hand, groaning into Eddie’s shoulder when he finds the straps of the garters. Eddie’s not sure what he’s so worked up about — the shirt stays are nothing more than thin elastic strapped around his thighs, three garters stretching up from each to keep his shirt from coming untucked. They’re practical, maybe even a little nerdy. But Richie’s transfixed. He runs his fingers along the elastic, following the curve of Eddie’s ass, slipping his fingers under the strap that’s just slightly too tight around Eddie’s thigh, tracing up the firm curve of his quads.

The garters had been comfortable when he’d adjusted them that morning, dressing in the bathroom so he didn’t wake Richie, still sprawled in his boxers on the king bed. He’d liked the way it had felt, the straps hidden beneath his pressed slacks and the proper knot on his tie, the gentlest resistance when he moved, a mere suggestion of restraint. But after hours of traffic and uncomfortable waiting room chairs and the straps chafing against his skin, the garters have left red indents where they gripped his legs, and Richie’s hands feel something like relief.

At least until he slowly pulls the garter away from Eddie with one curled finger and lets go. The elastic snaps back against his skin, echoing in the hallway in the silence between them. Eddie startles in surprise, every muscle in his body pulling tight then relaxing, just like the elastic. His skin stings where the buckle hit, a light rebuke.

“ _Richie_ ,” Eddie hisses.

“Okay, okay,” Richie mutters, resting his forehead on Eddie’s shoulder and looking down between their bodies, and then he does it again - harder this time. Eddie jerks, but Richie holds him still with his stupid fucking too-big hands, fingers digging into Eddie’s hairy thighs. Eddie wants to ask Richie what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, but he’s pretty sure he already knows.

Eddie inhales a ragged breath against Richie’s bowed head, dick thickening in his briefs. It feels good — the sting and the moment after, the warmth of his blood rushing to the surface of his skin, the shock and its immediate absence. Richie’s grip is tethering, a million times better than the flimsy straps on his thighs, anchoring Eddie against the overwhelming feeling stampeding through his brain, tripping synapses and a cascade of chemicals that he barely knows how to parse.

“Eddie, what the fuck,” Richie breathes. He drops to his knees on the hardwood floor of the entryway, running his fingers along the garters, one hand coming up to grip Eddie’s hip, tucking his thumb in the waistband of Eddie’s gray briefs to run it along the crest of his hip. “This is the fucking sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Eddie surges into his hand, and Richie laughs, humorless and strained, and without preamble, shoves his face under the hem of Eddie’s shirt, mouthing at Eddie’s thigh just below his briefs. 

Eddie shivers a little. there’s something overwhelming about Richie on his knees in front of him like this. It’s not new, anymore, but it definitely hasn’t gotten old — the way Eddie can see over his fogged glasses to where Richie’s eyelashes brush the tops of his cheeks, can touch the place on the crown of his head where his hair’s just starting to thin.

“I just want,” Richie says, between breaths, “let me—” and he kisses along the garter strapped to Eddie’s thigh, runs his tongue along the edge, dips under to taste the skin underneath. 

It’s the hottest fucking thing Eddie’s ever seen. Richie on his knees, biting at the insides of his thighs, mouthing at the garters. Richie’s pink tongue slicking his skin, peeking under the black elastic. _Jesus Christ_ , Eddie thinks, trying not to squirm. _Holy fucking shit_ , Richie.

Eddie’s dizzy with it, with everything. This is the way it always is, with Richie — Eddie’s minding his own business, practicing the comforting rituals of mundanity: making coffee, stretching, reading a chapter of his book before bed, glasses perched on his nose. Wearing shirt garters — which, up until five minutes ago, he would have fully expected Richie to mercilessly mock him for. Then Richie walks in and turns everything upside down, shuffles Eddie into disarray, coaxing him closer, touching Eddie exactly the right way before he even knows how he wants it.

It was one of the things about living with Richie that threw Eddie for a loop. Eddie wasn’t used to anyone looking at him the way Richie looks at him. He wasn’t used to a lot of things, like the casual affection Richie shows him: brushing the hair off his forehead when he’s bent over his laptop, composing a cover letter; rubbing Eddie’s calves when he shoves his feet into Richie’s lap while they’re watching TV on the couch at the end of the day; walking up to Eddie and kissing him for no reason at all.

He remembers the first time: Eddie had passed by the couch on his way to the kitchen and Richie had simply reached out and run a hand over his ass as he walked by. He’d stopped dead in his tracks, and looked back at Richie, bewildered. They’d ended up fucking right there in the living room, Richie on his hands and knees on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, and it had been worth it for the way Richie had sobbed and for the bruises Eddie’s fingers had left on his hips. They’d lasted a couple of days. The cramp in his calf had been gone the next morning, in time for Eddie to fuck Richie again in the shower after his run.

That was another thing: it had surprised him at first, how much Richie wanted him, all the time. More than that, it had surprised Eddie how much _he_ wanted Richie, too, a ferocious and immediate need that he’d never experienced before in his life. It was enough that he found himself throwing caution to the wind on the regular to do stupid shit like fucking on the floor even though he and Richie are both on the far side of forty with a bad knee apiece, or licking the sweat off Richie’s temples while he’s got Eddie nearly bent in half on the freshly washed duvet, messing it up so bad he has to wash it again right after.

Now, he can’t get the blue mug — the only one in the whole fucking house that’s free of both shitty puns and phallic clip art, and the one Eddie has claimed for his own — from the cupboard without thinking about the morning Richie herded him against the counter, hips pressed against Eddie’s ass, teeth nipping at the flared shell of his ear.

“Eds,” he’d whispered into Eddie’s ear. “You look so fucking good in my kitchen. Those shorts make me want to get my hands all over you.”

“Then why fucking don’t you?” Eddie said, half irritated and half turned on, the way he always was around Richie. He’d ground his ass back against Richie anyway, egging him on, and ended up bent over the counter, breath fogging against the cool kitchen tile, panting, while Richie ate him out until he was sobbing for it.

The way things are going now, Eddie’s going to end up begging again. Richie nips at his thigh, in no hurry to move things along, and Eddie sucks in a breath through gritted teeth.

“Fuck, Richie,” Eddie hisses, raking his fingers through Richie’s hair, closing his fist and tugging a little. Richie makes a small wounded noise, just like Eddie knew he would, and turns his face into the crease where Eddie’s thigh meets his groin, dragging his jaw across the soft fabric of Eddie’s underwear, his grip on Eddie’s hip clamping tight when Eddie wriggles closer.

“I got you, Eds,” he says, senselessly, and mouths Eddie’s dick through his briefs, running his tongue along the ridge of his cock, sucking a little at the head. Richie pops off and looks up at Eddie, a small familiar smile curling on his face, and Eddie’s stomach drops.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eddie says again, because he already knows how this is going to go, can feel his face flush, warm all the way down to his collar. Richie gets like this, sometimes — _focused_ , Eddie calls it, but only to himself. He can’t imagine sharing this with anyone else.

He’ll never forget the first time it happened, or any time after, really. They’d been kissing, Richie sprawled under him on the couch, Richie’s hands shoved up under his shirt, their abandoned beer bottles sweating on the coffee table magazines. Richie ran his thumbs over Eddie’s nipples and he sucked in a sharp breath, hips bucking in response.

“You like that,” Richie breathed, half a question. And then he went and did it again, and again, until Eddie was a quivering mess over him.

“Wanna make you feel so good,” Richie said on a gasp, pressing deeper, pulling Eddie back against him. Eddie couldn’t help the cry that slipped out, nor the one after, when Richie did it again. “Want to make you come.”

And he had.

Richie has that look in his eyes now, dark and alert, watching Eddie as he laps at the head of his dick, sucking lightly, soaking the front of his underwear. The fabric is so thin it’s barely there, just a wet layer of friction between him and Richie’s mouth. It’s almost too much and it turns his insides molten; he can’t help but make a noise, a loud open-mouthed exhale that has Richie grinning smugly against the front of his briefs, pressed so close he can feel it. It would be infuriating if it wasn’t so fucking hot.

Richie’s still wearing all his clothes, moving his hand from Eddie’s thigh to press against the front of his sweatpants, groaning against Eddie’s skin. “You’re so fucking hot, Eddie. God damn. You look so good in these. I wanna...”

Richie runs a finger across the garter straps, letting it briefly snag on each one. Eddie tries not to push into his touch, but he can’t help his soft gasp or the way his dick twitches in his underwear. The elastic catches on his leg hair, tugging a little, and even that feels fucking amazing

“You’re so sensitive.” Richie’s mouth twists in a knowing smile. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Eddie’s underwear, easing them down over his hips so they end up around his thighs, trapped by the garter straps. Eddie’s dick bobs gently, jutting out from his hips, and Richie abandons eye contact in favor of looking his fill, pressing his thumb into a bruise he’d left on Eddie’s hip only two days before. Eddie shivers and bites back a whine.

It should make Eddie feel uncomfortable, but he’s too turned on to care, and lately he’s realized he’s starting to like it when Richie looks at him. Call it Pavlovian, call it — whatever you want to, it really fucking works for him.

“How many fucking times do I have to tell you, I’m not fucking sensitive. You just... feel good,” Eddie snaps, but it’s toothless — he’s too breathless, too turned on to make it stick. Richie just grins back at him.

“Mmm,” he agrees. “I like making you feel good.”

“I know,” Eddie manages, but Richie’s already pressing slow, wet kisses to the tops of his thighs and he knows if he keeps trying to talk, he’s going to end up moaning or saying something embarrassing. So he shuts up.

It’s still hard, sometimes, for him to just— let go.

Objectively, it’s embarrassing — how he’s begging for it, twisting in Richie’s hands, pushing into his touch. But he also... loves it. There’s something in the way Richie looks at him, when Eddie has the presence of mind to look back, and how Richie seems to like it, watching Eddie as his brain fuzzes out into static, every exhale a low moan, Richie’s name and Richie’s taste in his mouth.

Eddie loves how long it lasts, how it leaves him feeling exhausted and lightheaded, blurs his vision when he comes. He loves the way Richie is after — awed and grateful — and the way he takes care of Eddie. He always brings him a glass of water when he asks, cleans him up, scratches his head. It feels good, lying wrapped in each other atop the damp sheets, in a room that smells like them and sex, Richie running his fingers through Eddie’s wild hair.

He tangles his own fingers in Richie’s hair, where he’s still kneeling between Eddie’s legs, teasing him. Eddie huffs out a breath and shifts his stance wider, a clear invitation.

“Impatient?” Richie arches an eyebrow. Eddie can feel his hot breath gust over his dick with every exhale.

“If you could get around to sucking my dick sometime before we both fucking die of old age,” Eddie snaps. It’s hard to be convincing when he wants it this bad. He’s breathless, his chest heaving, and he can feel the sweat soaking into his shirt at the collar and the small of his back. His cock is flushed, precome slowly dripping down the head.

"Maybe I just want to look at you." Richie’s looking up at Eddie through his eyelashes, over the tops of his glasses. He’s flushed, too, all the way down to the stretched-out collar of his stained t-shirt. Both of his hands are back on Eddie now, thumbs snagged on Eddie’s hipbones, long fingers anchoring him in place, pressing him back against the wall they just painted blue. He leans in, takes his time running his mouth along Eddie’s dick, and fuck, he’s so hard he can barely think. “But we both know I’d rather get my mouth on you. I love tasting you.”

“Jesus,” Eddie breathes. 

“You can call me Richie,” Richie says, grinning, and smugly nips at Eddie’s thigh. His stubble rasps against the sensitive skin there and Eddie inhales sharply at the feeling. He knows it’s going to leave a mark.

“I’ll call you a fucking tease.”

Richie laughs, but he’s got Eddie pinned with his annoyingly large hands and the way he’s looking at Eddie, his brief smile receding, yielding to a dark-eyed hunger that heats Eddie to his core, an edge of truth to his teasing. “Call me whatever you want, Eddie, my love. As long as you let me touch you.”

Eddie draws a shuddering breath. “Then you should probably shut the fuck up and do it.”

“For you? Anything.” Richie grins like he’s delivered the punchline, but Eddie thinks he might know better. And then he doesn’t think at all, Richie’s hand curling around the base of his dick, feeding the head into his mouth, hot and wet, still gentle, still teasing. He sucks lightly, running his tongue over the sensitive spot just below the head, and pulls off, again and again. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

Eddie whines low in the back of his throat. “Richie, come on—”

Richie pulls off and licks his lips. His breath catches in his throat. He’s watching Eddie, eyes wide, tracing a finger over the garters, plucking at them as he goes. “I still can’t fucking believe I didn’t know you had these.”

“Shut up,” Eddie says impatiently. “Just let me—” Richie strokes his hand up Eddie’s dick, twisting his wrist, sliding his palm over the head of Eddie’s cock, and Eddie cuts himself off with a groan.

“I mean it. You’re — you should see yourself. You look like...” Richie swallows, throat clicking, and he runs his hands over Eddie’s thighs, kneading at the muscle there, tugging the straps. He hums, slipping his hands back to grab at Eddie’s ass, raking blunt nails across his skin.

“Tell me,” Eddie grits out. “What do I look like?”

“Eddie. Eddie,” Richie says, and for once, it sounds like he’s the one losing it, like Eddie’s the one taking him apart, when all he’s doing is standing there getting his dick sucked. “You look like a fucking dream. You always look good, but. I like being the one to take you apart. I like being the only one who gets to see you like this. Your hair’s a fucking mess, and your mouth is all red from kissing me, and Jesus, your shirt—” Richie runs his hands up Eddie’s chest, putting new wrinkles in the damp fabric. Eddie doesn’t give a shit; he pushes into the touch. “I just want to—”

“What, Richie? Please, just, focus—”

And Richie does, pushing him harder against the wall, taking him down deep this time, slow and slick. Richie keeps teasing him, sucking him down and pulling off to lap at the head, just shy of enough pressure to give Eddie what he wants, what he’s aching for. His dick jerks in Richie’s hands, and Richie hums, sucking Eddie down again. 

Maybe Richie’s right, Eddie thinks feverishly, maybe he is a little sensitive, but he can’t fucking help it — not when he’s got Richie kneeling between his thighs, sucking his dick like it’s fucking Sunday afternoon, like Eddie isn’t about to lose his goddamn mind, half-dressed and still in his damn shirt garters, pinned against the wall, desperate. _Teasing_ him, like he always does, keeping him on edge. Richie looks up at Eddie through his lashes, and this time he swallows Eddie all the way down.

“Oh god,” Eddie murmurs, and then “ _fuck_ ,” because Richie’s pulling off again.

“You like that?” Richie asks, like he doesn’t fucking know. Like Eddie’s thighs aren’t twitching under his fingers, tensing and releasing as he fights the urge to wrest himself free of Richie’s grip. He’s pretty sure he couldn’t if he tried, and the thought shivers down his spine and settles into the core of him, taking root, creeping into his lungs and pooling deep in his belly.

“What the fuck, you know I— _Richie_ ,” he gasps. “You know I do.”

“Good,” Richie says, thumbing at the straps. “Just wanna make you feel good. Wanna make you come.”

“Come on, please,” Eddie says, his face hot. Because it’s so hard, to ask for what he wants, to get so worked up he _begs_ for it, to take it when Richie just gives it to him so freely, but Richie must know. He does, because he doesn’t say anything, just smiles up at Eddie, mouth pink and shiny with spit, and then gives it to him.

The feeling hits him like a baseball bat to the back of the head, or maybe he’s smacked himself against the wall, he doesn’t know for sure. Either way, the feeling is eclipsed by Richie surrounding him, swallowing him down. He’s moving faster now, getting into a rhythm guaranteed to get Eddie off, and quickly.

“Hold on,” Richie says through a gasp, trying to catch his breath while he fumbles in the pocket of his sweatpants. “Hold on, there’s one thing, I wanna—”

“Richie, fuck,” Eddie pants, but Richie’s already back on him and Eddie barely registers the _snick_ of a bottle over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears.

He gropes for Richie’s shoulder, tugs at Richie’s hair. Richie lets go of Eddie’s hip and grabs Eddie’s thigh, coaxing one leg up over Richie’s shoulder. It puts Eddie off-balance — Richie’s so tall, and Eddie’s flexible, but not enough when he’s straining forward, trying to get his dick deeper down Richie’s throat. Eddie ends up leaning back against the wall, Richie bracing him there, his shoulders spreading Eddie’s thighs beyond the point where he can balance on his own. He hears the stitches in his briefs give way, but he can’t bring himself to care while Richie’s got him like this, one broad hand grips Eddie by the hip, pinning him against the wall.

“Eddie, can I—”

“Yes,” Eddie manages. “Yes, how many fucking times—”

Richie doesn’t wait for him to finish, just takes him down again, deeper at this angle. Eddie gasps out a moan, back arching, but he doesn’t have enough leverage to buck his hips. He feels like he’s losing his mind — he can’t focus on anything other than the heat of Richie’s mouth, the slick slide of his tongue, the way he’s held fast, off-kilter, reliant on Richie to keep him upright.

Richie brings his free hand up to palm Eddie’s ass, slipping a hand beneath the garter strap, dipping between his cheeks to run a thumb over Eddie’s hole. He barely presses in, just catching on the rim, rubbing a slow circle. It winds Eddie up like nothing else, the way Richie gets him off balance in every way. The intensity of his attention used to to surprise Eddie. Now, he craves it.

The garter snaps back against his skin as Richie pulls his hand free. Eddie jolts his grip, letting out a slow hiss of air. Richie looks up at him with dark eyes, reaching low where Eddie can’t see. Eddie doesn’t care to, anyway, not when Richie’s looking at him like _that_ , mouth swollen pink from sucking Eddie, damp hair a wild tangle from Eddie’s fingers, glasses starting to fog.

Besides, he knows what’s coming. Richie’s hand is back, fingers slick, as he teases in and out of Eddie’s hole, steady and slow in concert with his mouth on Eddie’s dick, never quite giving him what he needs. He groans, trying to take Richie deeper, but he still doesn’t have the leverage. Richie won’t give it to him. The thought sends a flush of heat coursing through his veins.

“Richie,” Eddie gasps. He can barely catch his breath, half-gone on the feeling. Richie goes deeper, just glancing where he knows it’ll feel the best, a spike of pleasure that takes Eddie incrementally higher and sends a full-body shudder rolling from Eddie’s shoulders all the way down his back. 

Eddie can hear himself moaning and whimpering as if from a distance. Richie soothes him, stroking his hip bone, pulling off to murmur “I got you baby, it’s okay, I got you” and kiss the inside of Eddie’s thigh. But it doesn’t help, just winds Eddie tighter, and Richie doesn’t stop. 

He keeps that same steady movement, two fingers now, perfectly paced to shake Eddie apart, until he can barely breathe.Until Eddie’s head is empty of anything other than how good he feels, the individual sensations of Richie’s touch lost in the overwhelming need for more.

And with Richie, he can’t help it. There’s nothing else he can do, borne away by the intensity of Richie’s attention, the way he takes everything he knows about Eddie and uses it to his advantage, to make Eddie squirm and pant and go out of his mind.

When he thinks about it after, it’s something about the way Richie makes him feel. He knows he can trust Richie with anything, that no matter how much of himself he gives Richie, that Richie will keep him safe.

Eddie looks down at him. His eyes are closed, lashes dark against his cheekbones. He’s practically panting around Eddie’s dick, looking just as fucking wrecked as Eddie feels. And in the middle of all of it, of the fucking shirt garters and Richie being a goddamn tease, it hits Eddie all over again: with how stupid he is for this man, how fucking long he waited without knowing what he was waiting for, how fucking happy he is.

“Jesus, fuck yes, Richie, please. Just don’t fucking stop,” Eddie whines.

He tries to push up on the ball of his foot, arching, wanting Richie to move faster, wanting _more_. Richie just presses him firmly back against the wall and takes him deeper, finally, finally giving him what he wants, the slow drag of his fingers and his throat swallowing around Eddie’s dick, and that’s how he comes, just like that: surrounded by Richie, supported by him, Richie’s name in his mouth like a river-smooth pebble. 

His thighs are still shaking with the aftershocks when Richie finally eases off and turns to bite into the meat of one, pulling off to tug again at the garter strap with his teeth. Eddie laughs breathlessly, blinking to refocus his vision, and sags against the wall — but Richie’s got him, murmuring _easy, easy_. He waits until Eddie’s settled before he sets his leg down gently, rubbing at his thighs, letting Eddie slump down against the wall until he’s sitting on the floor.

It’s cooling, even through his damp shirt, like the floor beneath him. Coming back to himself takes a while. He notes sensations like clicking through a slide carousel: the damp hair fallen across his forehead, nearly in his eyes. The low ache of overextension settling in his joints. The way his mouth feels tender and full. The sweat cooling at his collarbones, the creases of his elbows, the small of his back.

“You okay, Eds?”

Looking up through his eyelashes, he finds Richie still kneeling, staring down at him. There’s a grin that Eddie can’t think of as anything other than sweet on his face. Eddie looks down at himself — he’s a fucking wreck, legs spread wide, now-useless briefs caught in the garters at the tops of his thighs, shirt wrinkled, dick still half-hard and flushed, shiny with Richie’s spit. The garters themselves have shifted, relaxed in his lap, revealing tender pink lines running up the skin of his thighs.

He can only imagine what he looks like, sprawled on the hallway floor. Richie doesn’t look away — can’t or won’t, Eddie thinks, it doesn’t matter. He’s biting his bottom lip, eyes dark and hungry in a way that thrills Eddie. His worn sweatpants don’t do anything to hide the thick bulge of his cock.

“I’m good,” Eddie says hoarsely. “What do you need?”

Richie looks between Eddie’s face and his slowly softening dick, biting his lip. “I— I wanna come on you.”

“Yeah.” Eddie’s mouth goes dry. “You can, Rich. Do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Anything you want.”

“Okay, okay,” Richie says frantically, shuffling forward and shoving his sweatpants down his thighs. He’s already wrapping a hand around his dick with a low groan, curling his body over Eddie’s and bracing himself with one arm on the wall above his head. “Fuck. You look so good.”

“You too,” Eddie breathes. Richie looks more than good, but Eddie doesn’t have the words for it: looming over Eddie, flushed down to the collar of his shirt, where a dark patch of sweat spreads down his chest. His hand’s already picking up a rhythm, the slick head of his dick level with Eddie’s chest. Eddie wants to lean forward and lap at it. He wants to push Richie down on the floor and eat him alive but he’s not sure he can trust his legs to do as he commands. “Come on, Rich. Give it to me.”

He sits and watches, rapt, as Richie jacks himself, gaze still flickering between Eddie’s face and his lap. He’s close, Eddie can tell: he’s biting his lip and panting, forehead damp with sweat in the warm sun streaming through the window, muscles in his thighs and belly tensing as he fucks into his own hand.

“Eddie,” Richie says, his breath hitching, words tumbling all over each other. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna—”

“Yeah, Rich, come on,” Eddie says, and Richie groans, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the foyer as his hand moves faster, his hips thrust harder. A long, low sound escapes his chest as he comes all over Eddie’s lap, mussed underwear, the garters framing the wiry hair around his half-hard dick.

Eddie watches the last aftershocks roll through Richie’s body, shoulders heaving. They’re both covered in sweat and Eddie’s filthy with lube and spit and Richie’s come. He likes it, and not just because of the way Richie looks at him after, dopey and hungry and soft. Eddie uncurls to cup the back of Richie’s neck, drawing him down into a kiss. It’s slightly sloppy, both of them still clumsy after coming, a sweet open-mouthed mess of a kiss. Richie sighs into Eddie’s mouth, a hand leaving the wall to cup his jaw, Richie’s thumb gently sweeping across his cheek. 

When they part, Richie grins at him and lands a loud, smacking kiss in the middle of Eddie’s forehead before he pushes off the wall to fall backward, collapsing into a heap of breathless laughter on the floor.

“Fuck, Eds. That was good,” Richie groans, rearranging himself until he’s leaning back on his palms, legs outstretched on either side of where Eddie’s still slumped on the floor. One of his knees cracks on the way, and he sounds like a dying hippopotamus, trying to talk and laugh and groan and catch his breath all at the same time. “Oh man. My knees. I don’t know if I can get up.”

“You sound like a dying hippo,” Eddie says. “But yeah, that was good.”

Richie just grins at him dopily, affectionate and well-fucked. It blows Eddie’s mind every time, the way Richie can’t get enough of Eddie, how it’s evident in the way he draws everything out, so good at trying to take Eddie apart. The way he looks at Eddie, after, like there’s nothing in the world but the two of them, like Eddie’s hung the moon or something stupid like that.

“Thanks, buddy.” Richie kicks him gently, a tap on the hip. “You’re a real pal.”

“Any time, you fucking idiot.” Eddie grabs Richie’s ankle, squeezes tight. He means it.


End file.
